


concessions

by deadlybride



Series: zmediaoutlet [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean and Cats, Fluff, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2018-11-16 13:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11253678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Dean is allergic to cats. He's able to make an exception.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Anon asked: _ok what do u think about DEAN N CATS i think that dean side eyes cats all the time. when sam brings home this huge ball of fluff he's like "put that thing back where it came from" but then sam is like PLEASE and the cat just ends up attaching itself to dean bc that's what cats fucking do. and dean's like "george is a great name for a cat" and sam's like "please stop petting him with your feet"_

He’s allergic to cats, we know from that one episode with the familiars, so I feel like he regards them with great suspicion. They make him sneeze, and that is not a very cool manly hunter thing to do, so they are probably the enemy.

HOWEVER

LOOK AT THIS KITTY:

You have the privilege of looking at a Siberian cat, which are specifically bred to be hypoallergenic. What if Sam comes out from a murdered family’s house holding their soft little mewing confused kitten, and he’s like _Dean, we can’t leave it_ , and _it’s so small_ , and Sam isn’t a pushover, it’s just—it really is so small, and they’re in the middle of nowhere, and it’ll probably be eaten by an owl if they don’t take it to a rescue or something, and—and— _Dean!_ and so Dean very reluctantly capitulates, but only if it stays in the backseat, in a box. _No, Sam, it isn’t riding up here with us —what if it gets away from you and gets under the gas pedal, don’t be an idiot._ It’s only supposed to be for the night. But then, they’re running out of town because the cops realized their FBI badges weren’t legit, and then it’s hiding out on side-roads and getting fast food for a while (feeding the cat little crumbled bits of burger patty), and by the time they get back to the bunker, Dean realizes—hey, he hasn’t sneezed. Like, not even once. And Sam has started calling the cat George _(what the hell kind of name is that for a cat, Sam,_ Dean says, and Sam says, _hey, what do you care, it’s not like we’re keeping him_ ), but—you know. George is pretty friendly. He likes burgers, which makes him pretty cool in Dean’s book. When they open up the box, he butts his little nose against Sam’s fingers and purrs, just, _really_ loud, and it reminds Dean of the Impala. Just a little bit.

George starts following Dean around the bunker. Sam won’t let him sit on the ancient texts while he’s working, because Sam’s a nerd like that, so George takes to hanging out on one of the nearby cars while Dean’s working on the Impala. He sits on the island while Dean’s cooking, which isn’t exactly hygienic, but—well. He just tucks his paws under his chest and gets this slit-eyed content look, and, okay, sometimes Dean gives him a little nibble of chicken or steak or whatever. But only sometimes. 

So, you know. Dean slouches down in the library and George rubs himself over Dean’s boots, and Sam sighs and rolls his eyes, but, you know. It’s kinda nice.

(Also, Siberian cats can get up to 20, 25 pounds. Dean knows he’s in deep when George pads into their room, a few years later, and jumps up on his chest—all the breath goes out of him and he kinda feels like he’s going to die, but—hell. He just pets the damn cat anyway, and lets the V8 purr lull him back to sleep.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: _If you feel like it, could you please continue to cling to canon and give us more of Sam and Dean and George the cat? Dean + cat is a perennial weakness of mine and I swooned over that little canon-compliant snippet._

It takes about three months of George living in the bunker before Dean fully capitulates. He doesn’t say anything, of course. No discussion about whether or not they’re keeping _the damn cat_. It’s just, one day as they sit working in the library, there comes the faint scratching sound from the electrical room as George covers up his mess in the half-a-cardboard-box with dirt in it that they’d rigged up, and Dean says, finally, not looking up from his laptop, “We ought to pick up a real litter box, that thing’s a pain in the ass,” and Sam blinks at him for a few seconds and says, “I could get one on Amazon,” and Dean grunts and keeps reading whatever he’s reading, and—well, that’s it. Sam puts a scratching post and a little cat bed in his basket, too. Red plaid flannel, soft-looking. Might as well keep George on theme, he thinks.

George never uses the bed, of course. He sleeps curled up on the classic cars in the garage and on the leather armchairs in the library and directly on top of Sam’s laptop (never Dean’s, and Sam’s starting to get suspicious about that). He shreds the scratching post in about three weeks, scattering little carpet tufts all over the kitchen floor. Dean props his hands on his hips and sighs, gives the cat a hard look where he’s sprawled on the table, but George only tucks his paws under his chest and starts up that contented rumbling purr, and so Dean can’t do much but sweep up. He makes Sam buy one of those weird ones made out of cardboard after that, though, leaning over Sam’s shoulder as they bicker about whether to order the one with the climbing tower or not ( _I’m not having a cat coming at me at head height,_  Dean says, and Sam thinks that Dean just doesn’t want to once again be the shortest person in the bunker, but he keeps that to himself). 

They don’t sleep together every night, though they do more often than not. Another thing they don’t really talk about, not that they need to. They used to keep the door closed, too, until George came to stay. That first night, Sam picked his head up around two in the morning to insistent tiny screeches over metal, and Dean sighed into the pillow, and Sam scrubbed his hand over his face and said, _if we give in once—_ , and Dean sighed and said,  _story of my life,_ and so it was left to Sam to get up and shuffle across the cold concrete and crack the door, and then a silvery little shadow coiled around his ankles in the dark and made a soft _mrr_ , which Sam was going to pretend was an apology, and by the time Sam made it back to bed there was a fuzzy lump tucked in against Dean’s warm side, purring contentedly. _No_ , Sam said, but when he took his spot back George just walked spiky circles around both of their legs and then turned into a loaf on the small of Dean’s back and started purring even louder. Dean sighed again, mumbled,  _this is your fault,_ and Sam rolled his eyes, but he scritched behind George’s ear, too. He’s a very soft cat.

Tonight, Sam wakes up with a start, heart pounding in the back of his throat as he tries to gulp down air. It takes him a moment—but no, he’s in the bunker. Four in the morning, six years after he got away, and it was just a nightmare. Everything’s as fine as it always is. He scrubs a hand over his face, laying there alone in the dark. He went to bed early, not long after dinner, and it turns out Dean didn’t join him. No big deal, though at the moment he kind of wishes—but, no. Doesn’t matter. He’s just cold, that’s all, and he didn’t work his brain hard enough before bed. Might as well get up now, though, even if he’s groggy, because—well, because.

He trips on the cat immediately, soft fur stretched out in front of his bedroom door. “God—” he says, and there’s a skitter as George bolts away, his tail probably trod on, “goddamn it, cat.” A little sharper than he meant, a little louder, something trembling weirdly under his skin. Fuck.

He’s sitting in the library, just one of the lamps on, holding his coffee against his chest. The warm of it, the smell, it’s—good. He breathes. Wonders how long it’ll be until Dean gets up. He could go for a run, kill some time, only it’s raining outside, enough that he can hear it even down here, and it just sounds so… miserable. He’s staring, at nothing, and he has no idea how long it’s been when there’s a nudge against his shin, and then George hops up onto his lap, needle-claws sinking immediately through his pajama pants. He hisses, but he still feels bad about earlier, and he just stays still, trying not to wince, while he’s kneaded into submission. It’s only a minute or so before apparently he’s the right consistency and George winds himself into a circle, all twenty pounds and plumy tail wrapped up neatly with his heavy little head tucked against Sam’s knee. Sam lays a hand on his wide soft back. “Hey, cat,” he says, quiet, and George starts up a steady rumble in response, warm and constant as one of those stupid Magic Fingers mattresses Dean always used to love.

When Dean finds them, later, Sam has finished the coffee and is just sitting, content to be a cat pillow, at least for now. Dean squints at the two of them. Sam tries to smile at the pretty epic bedhead Dean’s rocking, but Dean obviously sees something a little different because his expression changes. He comes over and runs a hand through Sam’s hair, eyes narrow. Sam shrugs, then lifts his face up. Dean kisses him, close-mouthed and obedient, and he smells good, familiar. When Dean pulls back he runs a strong calloused thumb around behind Sam’s ear, and then he crouches and scratches the back of George’s neck, his fingers brushing against Sam’s where he hasn’t moved his hand. “Hey, cat,” Dean says, voice scratchy, and Sam smiles, for real that time. “You wanna give up my brother?”

“Nah,” Sam says, propping his head on his free hand. “I’m leaving you. George and I are gonna travel the country, taking care of—uh, mouse hauntings, or something.”

“Oh, okay,” Dean says, and stands up, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I guess you don’t want another cup of coffee, then. Or, I’m thinking maybe some bacon.” 

“Hm,” Sam says, and picks George up with a discontented _mrr._  “Throw in some pancakes and I’m in.”

Dean rolls his eyes and scoops the cat out of Sam’s hands, tucking him under his arm football-style to carry him out to the kitchen for breakfast. “This is what I have to deal with,” he says, apparently to the cat. “What kind of man can’t live on bacon alone? I gotta make little cakes, too? Come on.”

Sam grins, and brushes the cat hair off his legs, or tries to. It’s going to be that kind of morning, he thinks, and then goes to stop Dean from feeding their cat Sam‘s share of the bacon.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This level of fluff is almost unconscionable.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (another little George snippet, set when Sam brings Dean home after Michael's evicted)

When it’s over—when he’s back. Sam brings him home to the bunker, with Sam driving the Impala. Dean leans into the passenger side and doesn’t object. He knows that’s a worry, that he’s supposed to—that he’s supposed to do all the shit he normally does. Supposed to make a fuss. Sam keeps dodging looks at him, careful little glances across the bench seat in the dark, but Dean’s just—he just can’t. He wants to say sorry but it’s stopped in his throat. He keeps his eyes closed, lets the V8 rumble at him through the seat. Sits in the smell of the car, and of Sam. Breathes. Hurts. Been a while since he was able to do either.

No one else is around, when they get there. Thank god. Sam parks up top—never could manage the long back-up down the garage tunnel, the wuss—and he wants to help Dean down the steps, Dean can tell, but he just hovers close instead. Dean wouldn’t mind if he did, but he can’t quite get that out either. He leans against the Impala’s door, looks up at the stars. All this dirt and plain grass and the smell of the fields that are their neighbors. Home.

When the entrance creaks open, the lights are all on, blazing. Sam probably left in a hurry. He’s right at Dean’s back, the bulk of him warm and close. Dean puts his hand on the rail of the balcony, looks down at the wreck and mess of the war table, of the library beyond. The things Sam gets up to when he’s gone. He blinks, slow, and then— _mrr!_  he hears, and—oh, fuck. Oh, how could he have forgotten.

George bolts up the stairs, all huge silver-white furball. He looks even bigger somehow than—before Dean left. He makes it to the top and sits down, tail swishing, and blinks up at the two of them before he meows again and then comes and butts his little head against Dean’s ankle, twining around his legs and looking inquisitively up.

“Hey,” Dean says. His voice comes out rusty as an abandoned car. “You hungry?”

George meows, and puts his paw up on Dean’s knee, briefly. Dean swallows and then—he has to sit down. Right down, there on the balcony with his legs sprawled out into the stairwell. George swarms up onto his thighs, butting his stomach, and Dean puts both hands in all that soft fur, tears swelling up behind his eyes that he doesn’t want to spill. If he did he’s not sure it’d stop for a while.

“Hey, cat,” he gets out, scrubbing his thumbs behind George’s ears. Sam sinks down next to him, puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean lets himself lean against Sam’s leg, but he doesn’t look over. He scrubs a firm thumb along George’s little cheekbone and he starts up that crazy loud purr, his eyes squinting contentedly shut, and Dean just keeps doing it. Sam kisses the side of his head, just once, and Dean closes his eyes, throat aching. He’s home.


End file.
